


Exceptional

by queenmevesknickers



Series: Tales of the North [1]
Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, F/M, Pining, Romance, Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26705713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmevesknickers/pseuds/queenmevesknickers
Summary: Your Majesty, under your husband I served ten years, under you another eight. And never in that time did I fight for a more worthy cause.Reynard has admired Meve since the moment he first laid eyes on her – little does he know just how much she will come to mean to him.
Relationships: Meve (The Witcher)/Reynard Odo
Series: Tales of the North [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958824
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

It was a fine summer’s day that found Reynard Odo by his King’s side, waiting beneath the shade of a tree near the border. Proud as he was to serve his King so closely, he was humble enough never to forget the close brush with the hangman’s noose that had brought him here, or the valuable lesson he had learnt in holding his tongue. So he did now, though half a dozen thoughts crossed his mind about the advisability of the King’s latest venture.

On the face of it, an alliance with the Lyrian Princess was certainly politically desirable; their neighbouring kingdom was a fair one, and a union between the two could only benefit both. But whether the Princess in question was a desirable wife for a king was another matter, and gossip was rife on the subject. The very fact that not one king or prince among all the northern realms would trouble themselves with her spoke volumes, even though he who wedded her would become the King of Lyria. The stories were whispered everywhere – how she had terrorised governesses, her rough ways and unladylike habits, that she was said to be readier to swing a sword than tell one end of a needle from the other. Her knees were bruised and scabby from falling off horses and out of trees, she was unwomanly, hardly a girl at all; her advisors had been at their wits’ ends until Reginald had finally offered for her. Of course, some said that, already very pretty, she promised to be a great beauty one day – though others were as quick to say that those rumours had been put about to try and improve her marriage prospects.

Reynard had to wonder if those particular rumours were what had swayed Reginald in the end. It had been many years since the people of Rivia had despaired of their King ever taking a wife, and yet here he was, about to meet his bride-to-be, an apparently wild girl he had agreed to marry without even laying eyes on her. This had caused quite some consternation amongst the court, who had grown used to the bachelor King’s ways, and had sent many of the ladies fretting that they would soon be at the beck and call of some outlandish hoyden. For his part, Reynard thought that the talk must be greatly exaggerated; he could not believe that the Princess would truly be as terrible as the tales would have her. But still, a king could not be too careful in his choice of bride, and his aide thought the way he had gone about making his choice was most unwise indeed.

The King and a small retinue had ridden out to meet her near the border between the two lands, and Reynard was glad this idea of his had been listened to at least. He had suggested that it may be less overwhelming for Her Highness to meet her soon-to-be husband more privately, but in truth, he had thought this way they might see her for themselves before the court did. To that end, they had arranged a little camp on a plain near the forest, ready to greet Princess Meve and her party before journeying together back to the city. The time of their arrival was not certain, but it was a fine, clear day and the small group of courtiers and soldiers who accompanied them were quite content to wait in the shade and enjoy the refreshments they had brought with them.

Reynard and the King stood a little away from the rest of the party. For all his relaxed attitude, leaning against a tree, Reginald’s eyes were fixed on the border of forest that stretched along the horizon, and Reynard could sense his anticipation. He had to wonder again why a man of almost forty summers, who had for many years openly enjoyed the pleasures of his single state, should choose now to bind himself to a rather dubious princess less than half his age. Rivia was not perhaps the largest or most powerful of their neighbouring kingdoms, but Reginald could have had his pick of any of the eligible ladies of their royal families. Why now? Why her?

This train of thought was interrupted, however, when Reginald clapped his shoulder and grinned, pointing at the tree line. “Can you see that?”

Reynard followed his King’s gaze, squinting slightly against the bright sunshine. He could see a horse and its rider had just broken free of the thick wall of trees and seemed to be crossing the terrain at a tremendous speed. He looked at the King, puzzled at his excitement.

“I’ll wager you that’s my betrothed, Reynard.” The King was still smiling broadly. “I know you’ve had your doubts, though you’ve not voiced them as many others have. I’d like you to be the first to meet your future Queen.”

Feeling doubtful, but ever obedient to his King’s command, Reynard leapt into his saddle and rode out to meet the fearless rider.

His horse galloped at a good pace, but he could see that the figure before him was still approaching much faster. He could see the horse was a magnificent animal, but it was the rider that soon made the breath catch in his throat. It was the way she rode that first captivated him. She was riding astride like a man and her seat was superb; she barely moved on the horse’s back. As she drew closer, he began to pick out other details – her golden hair that blazed under the sun, the hilt of an ornamental sword at her hip. He noticed that she was beginning to slow her horse as the distance between them dwindled. He stopped to wait for her, and before long she drew up her mount just short of him.

She looked up at him for the first time, and Reynard saw that the tales of her beauty had hardly done her justice at all. Two large, clear blue eyes gazed steadily at him, from a fair face blessed with high cheekbones and full lips. Her hair shone brightly, hanging heavily down her back, the same burnished hue as the wheat ripening in the fields around them. She seemed full of joy and exhilaration from her daring ride, but he caught her taking his measure as fully as he was taking hers.

It was a moment before she spoke. “Good day, sir.” Her voice was both lower and sweeter than he’d imagined. “I presume you must be one of King Reginald’s knights.”

“Yes, Your Highness – Count Reynard Odo, aide to His Majesty – at your service.” He bowed in his saddle.

“’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Count Odo.” She offered him her hand and seemed bemused when he kissed it. “It seems you have guessed who I am.”

“Your reputation proceeds you, Your Highness.”

She laughed at that. “I should not be surprised, I suppose. What tales of the terrible Princess Meve have been circulating through th’ Rivian court, I wonder?” She raised an eyebrow at him, seeming to challenge him to repeat the rumours.

He smiled, and simply said, “I have heard much of your prowess with th’ blade, Your Highness. I was rather hoping to learn if that tale were true.”

She returned his smile broadly. “I hope I shall have the opportunity to prove myself amply in that regard, Count Odo. Shall we ride onward?” She tilted her head towards the camp. “I am quite eager to meet my future husband, and those who shall soon be my subjects.” She began to canter towards the site of the gathering.

Reynard followed her, though he craned his neck turning back to the forest she had emerged from. “Your Highness…where are th’ rest of your party?”

“I’m afraid I left them behind a little while back,” she admitted, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “After trotting so primly for hours on end, Cygnet and I could not resist a nice gallop as soon as we saw th’ end of th’ trees,” she said, patting her mare’s neck. “I cannot imagine it will take them much _too_ much longer to reach us – although not one of them can ride as I can.”

Though he knew the Princess was not yet twenty, she possessed not a trace of awkwardness or shyness to betray her years. She carried herself proudly, and there was a determination to the set of her jaw and the tilt of her head that spoke of an iron core beneath the pretty exterior. Perhaps she had not been the most conventional choice, but who cared if she preferred to wield a blade than a needle when she bore herself like a queen already? Reynard smiled to himself; she would be more than a match for her new court.

They had almost reached the Rivian party – the Lyrians could just be seen emerging from the forest when Reynard looked back again – and Reginald strode forward to meet them. Reynard saw his eyes widen and knew he’d been captivated by her beauty. He watched from a respectful distance, as his King gallantly handed the Princess down from her mount – though Reynard had no doubt she required no such assistance – and the couple made their formal greetings to each other. The King now kissed her hand, and no maidenly blush coloured her cheeks; instead, she gave him the same look of calm appraisal she had bestowed on Reynard just before. He could not quite say why, but it pleased him that Princess Meve did not succumb instantly to Reginald’s charm, as so many other women did.

As Reginald led her towards the rest of the party, he glanced back at Reynard, following dutifully behind the pair, with a very smug expression – he may as well have said _I told you so_. Reynard could only smile wryly back. Despite not being blessed with the sharpest wits, the King did have the knack of seeing the potential in those around him. Reynard hoped, fervently, that Reginald would perceive the true value of the woman he was to wed. For Reynard knew already she was far more than a pretty face – she had the makings of a truly remarkable queen.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a sombre and subdued air that hung thickly over the castle, the day after it was plunged into mourning. The usual bustle of activity had ground almost to a halt, with many servants and courtiers simply standing about. But even though conversations were muted, gestures and glances restrained, there was a certain undercurrent of energy pervading it all. Something hung in the air; it seemed that everybody was waiting for something.

Reynard made his way through those milling about the corridors to the Queen’s rooms, where he was announced and admitted immediately. He had been surprised by the summons; it had been but a few hours since the announcement had gone out to inform the court that the King had drawn his last breath. But when the messenger had come early in the morning, to inform him the Queen requested his presence, he readied himself to see her at once.

When he entered, he saw Meve standing by the window, gazing out listlessly. The black of her dress served as a stark contrast to the pallor of her face, and even from the other side of the room, her eyes were obviously red from crying. Her exhaustion was evident; she had sat by her husband’s side almost constantly through the last few days, and Reynard would have been surprised if she had had more than an hour or two’s rest in all that time. Her long hair was pulled back in a simple braid, but it still glinted brightly in the weak sunshine, and it was with a steady voice and a faint smile that she greeted him.

“Reynard,” she said as he bowed, a trace of warmth evident in her tired voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Please take a seat – I hope I did not disturb you too early in th’ day.” She made her way over to her desk and sat down behind it.

“Not at all, Your Grace,” he replied, sitting opposite her. “I hope you will allow me to say how sorry I am – for your loss.”

She looked down at her hands, silent for a moment. “Thank you, Reynard. I’d wish to say th’ same to you – Reginald always valued your friendship greatly. His trust in you, his regard for you, could not be overstated.”

Reynard nodded his gratitude. “Thank you, Your Grace. His praise always meant much to me. He was a good man, and a good king.”

Meve drew in a breath before she spoke. “Reynard. Before he…died, did my husband make his wishes known to you? Regarding th’ succession?”

He frowned. Whatever he had expected from this meeting, this was not it. “Yes, Your Majesty. He made them very clear. To others besides myself, too.”

She regarded him carefully. “And you will support them?” There was a wariness to her tone; Reynard realised this was the first time he had ever seen her so unsure of herself.

“Yes, of course I will, Your Grace,” he replied, a little taken aback by the question. “Truly, I do not believe there is another way. Villem is too young to rule by far. Even if he were to be crowned, in name only, it leaves the throne vulnerable for others to try and rule through him. No,” he said, shaking his head. “’Tis th’ only way. It must be you, Your Grace. You alone should wear th’ crown, and rule in your own right.”

She closed her eyes for a moment as she exhaled, and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you, Reynard. Grateful I am indeed to know I have your support.”

He wished to give her more reassurance. “Truly though, my lady, I think you will find that you have the support of most, if not all, of the peers. Even if they did have reservations, th’ King made his will known clearly enough that I don’t think they could easily oppose you.”

Meve nodded. “I should be glad to hear it, I suppose,” she said, with a bitter smile. “But I know there’ll be those among them who will pledge their support to me only because they think I shall be as pliant and easily wielded as my eight-year-old son.”

There was truth in what she said, and Reynard knew there was little point in denying it. So instead, he simply remarked: “If they believe that, then I should think they were in for quite a shock, Your Grace.”

For the first time in days, he saw a true smile curve her lips. She stood, and he followed suit, awaiting her dismissal. “I must attend to other matters now, but I thank you again. Th’ honour and dedication with which you served my husband I have long admired – if I can inspire half the loyalty you gave him, I know I shall be well served indeed.”

When the next summons came but a day or two later, equally early, he was surprised, though no less punctual in attending her. He was still more surprised at the scene before him, which could not have been more different, though he hardly had time to comprehend it before the Queen noticed his presence and beckoned him to her. The woman before him today seemed an entirely different person to the one he had seen last. The black dress was gone, and she was instead resplendent in her golden armour. Any signs of tiredness had disappeared; she looked a tower of strength. But one had only to see the cold fury in her eyes to know her grief was anything but forgotten.

“Reynard – thank you once again, for attending me so quickly. I have sent for th’ other members of the council, but you are th’ first to arrive,” she said, somewhat distractedly.

“It is nothing, Your Majesty – I am entirely at your disposal.” He glanced at the collection of maps and charts on the table, puzzled as to what might be occurring, and deeply concerned. “Your Grace, if I may ask – what –”

“Oh, of course. Forgive me,” she replied, handing him a sheaf of papers. “Read these.”

He skimmed the contents of the border patrols’ reports, growing more concerned and incredulous with every line. “A force from Angren – about to cross th’ southern border –”

“And several other kingdoms poised to do th’ same. It seems our neighbours watch us mourn our loss, and see an opportunity they wish to seize,” she said, coldly. “They think us vulnerable and so wish to strike.”

“But to have arrived so quickly,” he frowned, “That means –”

“They would have to have begun their march before Reginald had even died.” Her expression was grim. “So time is not on our side either – we shall have to act decisively. In truth, I was hoping you would arrive before th’ others, for I wished to speak with you about our strategy first.”

“Me, Your Grace?”

“Reginald was always praising your gift for strategy – and always speaking of what a fine general you would make one day,” she said, more warmly. “I do not think you would have had to wait much longer for th’ promotion, though it falls now to me to bestow it.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “I am honoured by your faith in me.”

“I have no doubt you will prove it justified before long,” Meve said, smiling a little. “Now tell me, what are your thoughts?”

Reynard came to stand by her at the table and studied the maps spread before them, noting where the positions of the would-be invaders had been marked. “Th’ force from Angren is th’ closest.” He glanced again at the scouts’ reports. “It seems th’ others are watchful, waiting to see how th’ wind blows before they strike.” He looked to Meve; she nodded that he should go on. “There are two ways we might react. One, we might send a force to each stretch o’ th’ border where we are threatened – th’ forces will be smaller, but may act as a deterrent to those who are still considering their course. Or – we concentrate our force and make a show of our strength against th’ Angren invaders. Should we land a decisive victory, others will likely hesitate before attempting th’ same.”

She had listened intently. She appeared deep in thought, considering all he had said. Finally, she asked: “If we take the second course of action, what if our opponents are undaunted by our victory – provided we are victorious, of course? Should we be able to ride to reach them in time?”

He studied the map once more. “I should think so, Your Grace. Even if they are not deterred, even if they do not wait to march – they are far enough yet, and the terrain not so easily passed that I think we should meet them before they came too far.”

She nodded. “Then we have no time to waste. We must prepare to ride out without delay, so I might lead the charge against our foe as soon as possible.”

“You will lead th’ charge, my lady?” In his surprise, the question escaped him before he could stop it.

Her cold fury returned as she regarded him, arms crossed. “This armour is not meant for decoration, you know. I know I’ve not much experience on th’ field, but I hope my courage may make up for th’ lack.”

“Your Grace, please forgive me – I meant no slight upon you,” he said hastily. “I only meant – I would not have expected it, so soon after your loss.”

“A ruler’s place is leading her people, whether it be from her throne or on th’ field,” she said firmly, though her expression softened a little. “Mourning my husband is not a luxury I can afford now, it seems. It shall have to wait.”

“Then I shall be honoured to ride at your side,” he said, hoping his words would convey the true depth of his respect and admiration for her.

They were rewarded with the return of her warmth. “And I shall be glad to know you are with me.”

They were joined then by the rest of the council. Reynard saw the change in her demeanour; her expression hardened, regal and impassive, and she seemed to stand taller, hands on her hips. He knew then without a doubt that she was more than equal to the task, that she was more than capable of leading them to victory now and every day after. Looking at the other lords and nobles, most of their faces deeply troubled, he hoped they would soon see it too.

When the battle came, Meve more than laid to rest any doubt anyone might have had about her ability to lead. No one who saw the way she won the heart and mind of every one of her soldiers with her brief but passionate speech, or how she led the charge with fury blazing in her eyes and without a flicker of hesitation, could help but think that she had been born for this. If Reynard had thought he had admired her before, it was nothing to how he felt after seeing her ride fearlessly into the fray, wielding her blade with incredible skill and ferocity. Far from the vulnerable, grieving widow the enemy must have expected, the golden-haired terror on the battlefield drove them back into retreat with an alacrity that prompted much cheering and mirth from the Lyrian force. And when they rode triumphantly back into the city, every one of them to a man beamed with pride for their warrior Queen, and none more so than Reynard.

The celebrations were not boisterous – no one could forget that they still mourned their late King. But the atmosphere had changed, relaxed a little; this was no longer a court who fretted over the future – they quietly gloried in their beautiful Queen, who had now proven she would lead them every bit as capably as their King had.

As the evening wound to a close, Reynard was a little surprised when she drew him to one side.

“A word?” she said quietly. “I have been meaning to beg your forgiveness these last few days.”

“My forgiveness? Whatever for, Your Grace?” he replied, confused.

“For my familiarity. I must confess I have thought of you simply as Reynard for too long now in my mind, and have quite forgotten my manners. Please, do not feel as though you cannot correct me if I have caused offence by omitting your title.”

He was a little too stunned to reply immediately; to hear she had thought of him at all, much less in such intimate terms, made him feel much more than it should. Nor could he admit to her that he had come to rather like hearing her say his name. In the end, he only said, “Not at all, Your Grace. You have not offended me in th’ slightest. There are precious few who address me so – and it would be an honour to count you among them.”

She smiled again, a smile that more closely resembled the bright, dazzling expression of just a few weeks ago. “I am glad to hear it. To be queen is a lonely thing, and I fear now it shall be lonelier than ever,” she sighed. “But I will be glad to know I might count you at least, Reynard, as one of my friends.”

She dismissed him, and he returned to his chambers in something of a daze. It was at that moment that he knew that he would follow her anywhere. He would either spend his life in her service or hope to die fighting for her. He knew that perhaps what he felt for his Queen was a little more than simple loyalty, or admiration, but he could not bring himself to care. The difference in their status was too great; he could never allow himself to hope for anything more than what he had. But to be a friend to her – that was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the grey light of another dawn that roused Reynard from sleep, after another night on the damp, unforgiving camp bed. A seasoned veteran of many campaigns, it was not physical discomfort, however, that had disturbed his rest last night. Turning to bury his face in his lumpy pillow, he groaned. He had been dreaming of Meve. Again. Though he could hardly admit it even to himself, Reynard had loved his Queen for years now; he had been forced to accept some years ago that there would never be anyone else. He had made his peace with it, or so he thought – serving her, knowing how much she trusted him, how highly she regarded him, had been enough. At least it had been, until now.

It had been easier, he realised, when they had been at court or riding at the head of her official retinue in Lyria. There had been the protocol and propriety, to make the distinction clear in their statuses, and duties which had often parted him from her side. There had been enough distance between them then that he could keep his feelings safely buried. But ever since they had been forced to flee their home, since they had been forced to claw and scratch their way along the gruelling road to victory over the Blackclads, things had changed. Now he was at her side from dawn till dusk, day after day; they often ate together, stayed up all hours, bent over maps and charts, so closely that their heads almost touched. He took pride in standing at her right hand, in knowing how invaluable she found him – and in waking hours he could tell himself he was content. But at night – well, that was more difficult.

He sat up, rubbing his face, as though trying to push the images out of his mind. Dreams had never troubled him before, but since Aedirn they had started to plague him. The cruellest were the ones where he saw her hurt, or dying – the thing he feared most in the world. He had always been filled with pride at the sight of her charging at the fore, and he knew she had yet to meet her match on the field, or anywhere else for that matter. Yet the dread was always there, at the back of his mind, that one day her boldness and bravery would spell her end. But, no. It had not been Meve’s demise that he had dreamt of last night – though he almost wished it were. This dream had been rather pleasanter, though to Reynard’s mind, it was almost worse. He shook his head and clenched his fists, trying to clear the vision of Meve sighing in his arms from his mind.

Dressed and armoured, he made his way through the camp, headed for the command tent as usual. He tried not to clench his jaw too much; starting the day like this always put him in a foul mood. On his way he passed a group of the Strays, already at a game of dice despite the early hour; though they usually responded to anyone but Gascon with disdain bordering on insubordination, today the look on Reynard’s face was enough to have them hastily pocketing their coin and scurrying away without so much as a word of protest.

His temper failed to improve when he entered the tent to find Meve laughing, clearly in response to something Gascon had said. Though his relationship with the other man had improved considerably over the last few weeks, Reynard could not let go of his resentment of the easy friendship he had struck up with Meve. At first he had seen it as an attempt by Gascon to ingratiate himself, and felt contempt; then jealousy when he saw that Meve had begun to enjoy his impertinent banter and bold compliments. He knew now that Gascon meant nothing by it, and he knew Meve too well to think her head could be turned so easily, even by a good-looking younger man. But to see them conversing and joking, how readily Gascon could make her laugh, still stung.

If he had thought he had managed to keep his irritation from showing on his face, he was clearly mistaken, for when Meve looked up at him, she appeared rather taken aback.

“Gods, Reynard, are you alright? Is something amiss?” she demanded.

 _Damn it_. He hastily tried to rearrange his features into something approaching his usual calm. “No, not at all, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “Forgive me. I fear I was merely lost in thought.”

“Hm.” She did not look entirely convinced, but did not press him further. “Come, what do you make of this?” She gestured to the map spread on the table before them. “We await th’ scouts’ report, but I cannot say I am hopeful we can avoid getting our feet wet again today.”

Behind Meve’s back, Gascon pulled a face at him. _What’s wrong_? he mouthed silently.

Reynard merely shook his head sharply in response, and Gascon shrugged. The three of them turned to the map and began to determine their course for the day. Their maps were not good, for all they were the best they could lay their hands on. What might appear on paper to be clear, open ground often turned out to be boggy marshes, and paths shown to wind through the trees were almost invariably impassable, they were so thick with scrub and bramble. Still, at least they had finally crawled their way out of the horrors of Ysgith; the path ahead seemed positively clear in comparison. Between the three of them, and the reports brought to them by the scouts, they determined what appeared to be the least treacherous route for the day.

“All right,” said Meve, with a resigned sigh. “I suppose we may as well get on with it. Let us prepare to march.”

The two men nodded and began to leave the tent.

“Oh, Reynard –” Meve called.

He turned back instantly “Yes, Your Grace?”

“I’ve been meaning to commend you on th’ work of th’ scouts of late – they have been truly invaluable. I fear without their skills, we would all have been lost in a bog some days past,” she said, with a smile that was tired but genuine.

“Thank you, Your Grace – I shall be sure to pass th’ praise on to the men.”

Her smile went some ways to improve his mood, as he exited the tent to oversee the process of getting their men on the road. He regretted deeply the damage he had done to her trust in him, with his ill-judged attempt to reconcile mother and son; he should have known that the stubbornness and pride on either side of that breach would never have yielded to the other. But finally, he sensed that some of the new reserve and coldness she had shown to both himself and Gascon was lessening – they might have almost earned her forgiveness.

Onwards they marched, as slowly as a force as large as theirs had become must travel through such uncertain terrain. He spent most of the morning riding by Meve’s side, Gascon often joining them too, though the three of them spoke little. Their faces were as pale and drawn as any other in their force; there was a sense of grim determination amongst them all to leave this cursed land behind and return to their own home as soon as they possibly could. But their progress ground to a halt, though there were still several hours of daylight remaining. In the predictably unpredictable way of the Angren terrain, and despite their careful planning that morning, they had come up against a swamp too deep to traverse. Reynard could practically hear Meve grinding her teeth beside him.

“Around?” she said, tersely.

Reynard shook his head. “Too wide – miles in either direction, according to th’ scouts.”

She sighed heavily. “We must bridge it then. Someone fetch Xavier for me – Reynard, Gascon, please see to th’ camp. I fear we shall go no further today.”

Despite their weary spirits, the Lyrians made camp with the practised speed of an army who had been on the march for months. Unusually, Reynard found himself at rather a loss for something to do. Ordinarily, he would take any opportunity to spend time in training and drills – he couldn’t abide idleness for himself or the men – but he hadn’t the heart for it today. Yet sitting alone in his tent stewing was hardly a profitable use of his time either. So he sat himself outside his tent, sharpening his already well-honed blade, hoping that Meve would send for him and give him something useful to do before too long.

He had looked up hopefully at the sound of approaching footsteps, and couldn’t quite hide his frown when he saw who it was.

“Well, don’t look too happy to see me, Reynard.” Gascon’s tone was one of mock-offence. “What’s eating you today?”

Reynard held back a sigh. He had genuinely come to enjoy Gascon’s company; the evenings they spent playing cards were a much more pleasant way to pass the time than he otherwise might have done. But he could be far, far too observant for Reynard’s comfort sometimes. “Nothing,” he replied, flatly.

Gascon snorted. “You’re a terrible liar, friend. You’ve had the temper of an angry bear today – why, makes your usual self look positively cheerful in comparison.”

Reynard chose to make no response to this, continuing to work on his blade as Gascon took a seat, quite uninvited, on a nearby rock.

“It’s about her, isn’t it?” Gascon had pulled out an apple and begun crunching on it loudly, which did nothing to lessen Reynard’s irritation.

“No, it isn’t,” he said instantly. He cursed himself for sounding too defensive.

“Ha, so it _is_ about her, then,” said Gascon, who was making a very poor effort of hiding his smirk. “If you want to know what I think –”

“I do not,” Reynard muttered.

“I think,” continued Gascon, as though he had not been interrupted, “that you should tell her.”

For someone usually so cynical, there were times when Gascon could be so boldly optimistic it astounded him. Had he ever been so brash and sanguine? Probably, once. “I think she has matters of far greater importance to occupy her at present, Gascon,” he said firmly, keeping his eyes fixed on the blade in his hands.

“True enough,” said Gascon, thoughtfully. “Our Meve does have somethin’ of a one-track mind. There's room for only one man in her thoughts right now, and his name’s Ardal aep Dahy – and she dreams o’ nothing but how well his head will look on a pike.”

Reynard’s lips twitched into a smile despite himself. “Exactly. So,” he said, trying to sound stern again, “I will not be troubling her with any such foolish talk – as you would have me do.”

“All right, I can see you won’t listen,” Gascon said, rolling his eyes and shrugging. “Game o’ cards, then?”

“I would rather see if Her Majesty has any need of us first.” Reynard glanced towards the pennants above the command tent, ignoring Gascon’s knowing grin.

“As you like,” Gascon replied, standing. “Though I know you’re just sore about your losin’ streak.”

Reynard rolled his eyes.

The two men made their way towards the command tent. As they walked, Reynard began to feel a prickling at the back of his neck – a sensation he felt rarely but had learned never to ignore. He glanced at Gascon, who was frowning. They exchanged a look and, wordlessly, quickened their pace.

The scene they came upon when Gascon pulled back the flap of the tent was one that Reynard would never forget, and one which would haunt him for a long time to come. Xavier, the rope around Meve’s neck – at that moment, it was utterly incomprehensible. But he did not need to understand it; instinct carried him forward. Reflexively he reached for his sword but then saw Gascon already had his blade out, about to drive it home into the would-be assassin’s side. So he ran past them both, just in time to catch Meve in his arms as she collapsed. It seemed like such a cruel twist on his dreams, to hold her limp form in his arms, and it took every bit of self-control he had not to succumb to blind panic. The rope had left angry red burns on her neck, which were already turning to bruises. He forced himself to remain calm as he searched desperately for any sign of life. It was only when he saw her chest rise and fall that he realised he had been holding his own breath.

“She’s breathing!” he cried out in relief. “She’s breathing,” he repeated, thanking every god he knew of.

He heard Gascon let out a sigh behind him. “She needs help – we need Isbel,” he said, turning towards the entrance. He sounded more worried than Reynard had ever heard him.

“Gascon,” he said in a low voice, hardly able to draw his eyes away from Meve. “We must try not to let word of this spread – not until we know more.”

Gascon nodded. “I’ll find her myself.”

It did not take him long to return, the mage in tow. He saw the shock register in Isbel’s face, her eyes widening as she took in the dead engineer on the floor and Meve’s unconscious form. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she hurried over to crouch by her side. Her expression serious, she examined the welts on Meve’s neck and laid a hand over her heart.

“It still beats strongly. She will survive. But she will need rest, and I will do what I can to help her recover. We should move her to her bed.”

He did as the sorceress said, though Reynard felt a pang as he laid her down and relinquished his hold on her. After a last long look at his Queen, he turned and left her to Isbel’s ministrations. He found Gascon turning the corpse over with his foot, a look of disgust on his face. “Well, well, would you look at that. It really is him, th’ bastard.” He looked up at Reynard, his expression grim. “Clearly working for th’ Blackclads, from his last words but…when? How? I can’t make sense of it.”

Reynard shook his head. “Me neither. But we must find out.” He hesitated, glancing back towards the other room of the tent.

Gascon laid a hand on his arm. “There’s nowt more we can do to help her here, Reynard. Isbel’s with her. We’ll serve her better by findin’ out what th’ hell just happened, rather than pacing anxiously outside her room.”

Reynard nodded. He knew well that as soon as she woke, Meve would want answers, and it would give him some small satisfaction at least to be able to give them to her.

They made their way through the camp to Xavier’s quarters. There was already a new tension in the air, a faint hum of anxiety, though it seemed the details of what had taken place had not yet become known. That was good, at least – they had no idea yet whether the engineer had been acting alone or with accomplices; they had to find out quickly whether there were other spies in their ranks before they could be alerted to the news of the foiled assassination. When they reached the engineer’s tent, they made quick work of searching it. It was Gascon, with his thief’s instinct, who found the concealed compartment in the toolbox.

“Would you look at what we have here,” he breathed. He held a clutch of letters, which, despite being written in cipher, were obviously from their enemy. “Know anything of code-breaking, Reynard? Looks like we’ve some work ahead of us.”

It was not long before they had learnt everything they could about Gwalter aep Llwynog, alias Xavier Lemmens; both men felt the full weight of the discovery of just how long an imposter had dwelt amongst their ranks. When they returned to Meve’s tent, Isbel emerged to greet them, looking a little exasperated.

“Her Majesty is awake, and, despite my strongest advice that she should rest, is asking for you both.”

Reynard and Gascon exchanged a small smile. That, at least, sounded like the Meve they knew.

Isbel glanced again at the body on the floor, frowning. “Perhaps it is not my place but…may I ask if you have learned anything of what happened here?”

The two men shared another look. “A Nilfgaardian spy,” Reynard said, finally. “And attempted assassin, as it turns out.”

Isbel’s expression turned dark; there was now a cold fury in her eyes that contrasted sharply with her usual gentle demeanour, and a power radiated from her that dared you to forget that she was a formidable mage. “I see,” was all she said, the anger in her voice unmistakable. “To think, how I pitied him – tried my best to heal him – well…let us pray the gods will soon grant us vengeance on him and all his kind.” She exhaled sharply, seemingly to calm herself. “I shall not be far if you require me. Her Majesty is very lucky to have you both.” And with that, she left the tent.

Gascon shivered. “Please, never let me do anything to get on Isbel’s bad side.”

Reynard, feeling somewhat shaken himself, could only agree.

It was a relief to see Meve awake and on her feet, even as Reynard was torn between worry at her unsteady stance and hoarse voice, and pride at her refusal to be cowed even for a moment, despite how close she had come to losing her life. Neither man was surprised at her insistence on marching onwards as soon as they could, though she hardly looked equal to even mounting her horse; they both knew well the futility of suggesting they do otherwise. Instead, they managed to convince her to rest at least while they made the necessary preparations to begin their march once more.

Reynard was deep in thought as they left the tent. It was the closest he had ever come to losing her. And not as he had feared he might, on the battlefield, in an open fight against the foe; it had been a spy in the shadows, an unsuspected threat that almost snatched her away. He knew now that he could bear any other hardship or pain, so long as she lived; knowing what had almost happened, to endure anything else would be easy in comparison. If he could remain at her side, and see this war out to its end – he would not so much as think of wanting anything more ever again.

“Still think you should tell her,” Gascon muttered, as they walked away, interrupting his reverie. “What if she’d –”

Reynard shook his head firmly, cutting him off. “It is enough that she lives, Gascon – and I thank all the gods for it. I cannot, I _will_ not ask for more than that.”

“Fine,” Gascon sighed. Then he added, mischief in his eyes: “If you die in battle one of these days, though, I’m going to tell her.”

Reynard gave him a sideways look. “Well, if I am dead, I shan’t be around to stop you – though I warn you I shall come and haunt you, instead, if you do any such thing.”

Gascon laughed at that, and Reynard could not help joining in; despite all the fear and worry of the day, his sense of relief was strong too. Meve would fight another day. And he would be there, as always, by her side. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Her Majesty is...exceptional._


End file.
